Affected Family
by L. VanDattae
Summary: When Dick returns to the manor, Tim must do everything he can to protect his older brother from the truth, which isn't easy with Jason still tied up in the basement and the new kid trying to take him out. Sequel to House of Lies.
1. Homecoming

**Warning:** This is a SEQUEL! If you want to know why certain characters act the way they do (mostly Tim and Jason), read House of Lies first.

**Affect (v):** to give the appearance of; pretend or feign; to use, wear, or adopt by preference; choose; prefer. _–Dictionary. com_

**Chapter 1**

Homecoming

Dick almost didn't see the gray blur detaching itself from the tunnel walls in time.

He'd been away from the manor for several months, he was thinking about seeing Tim again, and Bruce, the warm reception that always came with going _home_. He definitely wasn't expecting to be tackled off his bike before he'd even made it fully inside the cave. Not expecting it at all.

There was a glint of silver in the sterile glow of the headlights. That was his only warning. Dick twisted, spine arching back, fingers letting go of the handlebars. The _sching_ of a blade whirled inches above his nose. Then it was past and he snatched at the arm of the wielder to keep it that way even as the bike roared out from underneath them. The wrist he caught was thinner than expected, the face above him too young.

Dang, it was just a kid.

Dick had just enough forethought to jerk that wrist down, pulling the kid tight against his chest, curling protectively around that tiny body as he braced for impact. The boy struggled at first, shoving at Dick's hold on him with a strangled "What are you doing? Get off me!" But then they hit—a bone-crunching collision with the cold stone of the ground that nearly dislocated his shoulder—and the kid ceased struggling in favor of holding on. Good, at least he had _some_ sense of self-preservation.

They tumbled together, a ball of gray and black and blue, before coming to one final, wrenching impact with the wall. He might have blacked out for a second—there was a worrisomely blank spot between the sickening crack of hitting the wall and waking up face down on the cold floor.

"Get off me!" It was actually the shoving at his chest that pulled him out of it. He groaned, vision swimming. The shoving became more insistent, knees and elbows jabbing into him. "Get off me, you lout!" The kid, pinned underneath him. Dick rolled off, coming gracefully to his feet despite the truly remarkable number of bruises he would have tomorrow.

"Are you alright?" He reached down to help the kid up, only to have his hand slapped haughtily away.

"I'd be better if some moron hadn't just dragged me through the dryer's spin cycle." The boy—he couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen—had short-cropped black hair and blue eyes—Bruce's blue eyes. Even with his arms folded petulantly, he was really kind of… cute.

Still, a sense of the severity of the situation needed to be instilled.

"I could have left you for pavement pizza," Dick replied, "pulling a stunt like that."

"I would have been fine if you hadn't grabbed me. I don't need your protection. Anyway, don't think just because you've disarmed me that you've won." He pointed dramatically. "You will not succeed in your designs!"

"Going home?" Dick asked skeptically. What had the kid thought he'd been doing?

"You were trying to infiltrate Father's base!"

Oh. Well. Wait…

"Father?!"

* * *

By the time they reached the cave proper, Damian had mostly given up on trying to get free and had stiffened into the personification of sullen rage. If Grayson wouldn't release him, then the man would have to drag him. It was only right he suffer in some small way the same indignation Damian was suffering. It was a small payback quickly forgotten when they came to a stop in front of Father and Drake.

The two of them had obviously just returned from patrol, both still in their suits minus the cowl and mask, and they both blinked almost identically surprised expressions—perhaps a little more wide-eyed excited in Drake's case, a little more slant-eyed pleased in Father's case—when Grayson came to a stop in front of them.

"Dick!" Tim exclaimed. "What are you…?" His joy turned into mirth at the sight they made. Yes, that breathless laughter was definitely the replacement snickering at his predicament. "I see you've met Damian already."

"Yeah, he belong to you?" Grayson asked, hefting Damian by the scruff of his neck. Damian stiffened with renewed outrage.

"Unhand me!" Grayson might have done a thorough job of disarming him, but he was far from defenseless, and he would not tolerate the shame of such undignified treatment in front of Father or Drake—Drake, who was still standing smugly by Father's side in _his_ rightful place! _He_ was the rightful heir! Not that usurper of a next-door neighbor. And as such he deserved respect and dignity, not this manhandling, and he wasn't going to stand for it any longer. He would get the reverence he deserved, even if he had to take it by force.

Grasping at the hand holding him up, he used it for leverage to hook a leg over Grayson's arm, a foot behind his skull, to take him down, possibly break his arm, and… Grayson _twisted_ somehow—Damian had never seen anything like it—rolling his neck, and Damian's leverage failed, grip lost. He blinked to find himself once again dangling above the floor, a most unwelcome and undignified position.

"Welcome back, son." Father seemed unfazed by the demise his youngest was suffering. Clearly no help was going to come from that direction—not that Damian needed it. Father's folded arms might even have been stifling the urge to embrace his oldest son. Like Drake clearly wanted to do. "Damian, this is…"

"I know who he is!" Damian snapped, flushed and floundering. Grayson was proving a formidable foe.

"Can't say the same. Why didn't anyone tell me there was a new addition to the family?!" Grayson shook him again for emphasis.

"We knew you'd rush down here to see him," Drake quipped, grinning mischievously, "and we haven't housebroken him yet."

"Harsh, Little Brother."

"Damian has only recently come to live with us," Father said, arms still folded evenly. "We've… had our hands full."

"I'll bet. He come included with that katana he tried to use on me or were the accessories sold separately?"

"Katana?" Father's mouth thinned into a line. "He attacked you?"

"You didn't walk here, did you?" Drake asked near-simultaneously, looking around. "Where's your ride?"

"In a dozen pieces up the ramp." Grayson winced, rotating one arm in a stiff semicircle. The idiot had probably come dangerously close to dislocating one of those shoulders in his foolish attempt to rescue his assailant earlier, Damian suspected. An unnecessary rescue attempt, of course. Damian could have landed safely without the man's foolhardy assistance. He didn't know what to make of the action either, whether to feel indignant at being treated like an incompetent child or flustered by the amount of effort the man had put into saving him. People weren't supposed to _do_ nice things like that.

"Damian! He's your _brother!_" Father's eyes narrowed in dangerous exasperation at the same time Drake asked, "Are you all right?"

"Just bruised." Grayson waved them off. "I'm going to get this little porcupine patched up really quick."

"I do not require medical attention." Porcupine indeed. Damian scowled.

"Then we will be discussing your behavior _thoroughly_." Father was still glaring, and on second thought, letting Grayson manhandle him didn't seem like such a sacrifice of dignity compared to facing Father.

"I get first dibs!" Grayson declared, already herding him toward the medical bay with a firmly guiding arm around his back. "You can have him afterward." Damian allowed the guidance only so far, snapping once they'd reached the safety of gleaming sterile counters reeking of disinfectant.

"Remove your hands or I'll break your wrists."

"That depends. Do I have to tie you to the table or will you stay?" Insufferable. Really. He was just insufferable.

"I can get out of any bindings." Damian crossed his arms. Grayson hummed thoughtfully, as if to say, "Is that so?" but let him go in favor of retrieving supplies. Damian watched him opening drawers for a moment with utmost suspicion. Grayson was still an enemy after all, and it wouldn't do to let his guard down.

"Father may be unconcerned about your unsolicited entrance, but you aren't fooling me with this act."

"I was coming _home_." He closed the drawer.

"You were infiltrating a secret entrance." But Grayson only laughed—laughed!—amused smile widening as he set the supplies down on the counter and pulled a stool over. Damian frowned. He didn't have time for this. He had training to do, replacements to kill. All this attention was ridiculous. Such a fuss over a few scrapes! And why did Grayson have to look so hopelessly dopey while he did it?

Damian huffed as the man rubbed antiseptic into the cuts with gentle pressure, and turned away, even if the brush of fingers against his elbow, pushing up under his sleeve to check for additional abrasions wasn't completely detestable. He allowed the inspection patiently.

Father didn't need all these replacement sons now that he had Damian. But maybe Grayson wasn't so bad. If he had to share Father's affection with another brother, better Grayson than Drake. Despicable Drake. At least Todd wasn't actively vying for the position.

"Be more careful next time, Little D." The man ruffled his hair as he stood, and Damian took back everything he'd thought and consoled himself with the image of going for Grayson's throat.

* * *

"Dick, you're hurt!" Tim had followed them in, standing in the doorway when Dick looked up. He was still standing close enough to Damian to feel the younger boy stiffen as though threatened, and that didn't make any sense at all. Tim was harmless. The boy adored them, had practically idolized Batman and Robin. Eyeing him now, Dick thought Tim would be satisfied working beside Bruce forever if someone didn't give him a gentle push out the door soon.

"Nothing I'm not used to." He smiled disarmingly. His back felt like hamburger, one shoulder had been severely damaged, his arms scraped up, but as long as he didn't obviously limp or favor one limb over the other, Tim need never know…

"The idiot pole-vaulted off his vehicle in an attempt to rescue me." Without revealing the nature of his own role in the mess of course. The little traitor. So much for keeping Tim from unnecessary worry. Tim's eyes narrowed on him in that same way Bruce's did, and Dick's smile turned sheepish.

"Sit down." Of course nothing would do until Tim had thoroughly checked him over. Dick didn't even try to protest that authoritative tone—his future-ruler-of-Wayne-Industries tone—just sat meekly down on the stool in Damian's place. The little rat smirked sharply at him from behind Tim's back. And if he didn't outright mouth "revenge," it was implied.

All of this meant he was stuck for the next five minutes while Tim made disparaging noises and washed the blood out of his hair with a damp cloth. Dick accepted the pampering tamely and helped by rubbing antiseptic into the abrasions on his arms. He might even have gotten away with just that if he hadn't winced when Tim patted him on the back.

"Honestly, Dick!" Tim said, pushing his shirt up to ascertain the extent of the injury. The cool touch against his raw skin was the boy's hands tracing the damage. "How many times did you hit?!"

"It was more of a roll…" Dick ducked his head guiltily. "I came out in one piece though, didn't I?"

"Barely," Tim murmured, getting more bandages and wet cloths.

Damian clucked disparagingly. "Idiot."

Dick considered his new brother for a minute while Tim was busy: the upward tilt of his chin and shoulders squared against the world, the blue eyes so like Bruce's. He was the picture of defiance and haughtiness, and yet… Had Damian told Tim on him because the boy wanted to make sure he was cared for? There was an underlying insecurity there that made Dick want to just wrap him up.

His thoughts were broken by Tim's return, murmuring things while he washed the blood away with careful caresses of a cold, wet cloth. The gentleness made Dick smile, even if the soft words he picked up sounded more like threats to his freedom than worries. Eventually Tim declared him fit and Dick was allowed to escape.

After so long away in Bludhaven, he didn't want to call it a night quite so soon—he wanted to pull them all into a hug and never let go—but as good as it was to see Bruce and Tim again, Dick was hungry after a night on patrol, and with that in mind, suggested continuing their conversation upstairs in the kitchen.

"I'm coming too!" Damian said, hurrying not to be left behind. "Somebody _trustworthy_ has to keep an eye on the interloper, after all!" Dick chuckled, waiting for his youngest brother to catch up before continuing up the stairs to the manor proper.

Apparently though it couldn't be quite that simple. They passed one of the first-floor guest bedrooms on the way to the kitchen, light spilling into the hallway. Dick glanced in and stopped. Jason lay on the bed inside, one hand cuffed to the headboard.

Oh. Dick felt his eyebrows hike up.

"Dickie! Thank goodness!" Seeing him, Jason sat bolt upright with all the desperation of the dying. "You have to get me out of here!"

"Uh-huh." Dick wasn't so easily fooled. "What did you do this time?"

"He's our prisoner!" Damian stepped up beside him, feet together and back straight, with all the air of a warden, and it was kind of cute that he was taking such a game so seriously.

"Don't listen to them!" Jason shouted, straining at his cuff. "They're the enemy! They're on _his_ side!"

"You won't free him, will you?" Tim asked seriously, and Dick wrapped an arm reassuringly around the younger boy's shoulders and started to guide them away.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Dickie! Dick! You can't leave me here!" Jason's desperate pleas followed them down the hall. "They're reading me bedtime stories, Dick! _Bedtime stories!_ THEY'RE BRAINWASHING ME WITH CINDERELLA!" His shouts dissolved into cursing as they passed out of hearing range.

They reached the kitchen without any more surprises and Dick went to drag sandwich ingredients out of the refrigerator. Tim ducked around him to pull out a Zesti with an "On your right!" Even if the younger boy had recently developed the grace and deft skill of maturity, some things never changed. Dick tried to elbow him teasingly, but Tim merely swiveled out of reach, taking his prize and setting the can down on the counter. Grace, indeed. Damian hopped up beside their mutual brother as Dick placed the sandwich parts down and started combining them, shutting the refrigerator deftly with a flick of his foot.

"How long are you staying?" Tim's smile was brilliant—earnestly happy, but… wrong somehow. Maybe _too_ happy. Tim had always been a bit reserved. Dick wondered at it, but let it pass. He wasn't going to complain about his brother's happiness.

"A few days." He grinned back. "Have to get to know my new little brother."

"Tt." Damian lifted his chin. "Your pathetic attempts to ingratiate yourself to me will not win you a place at my side once I have assumed my rightful position at the head of Father's organization."

"Those are quite the aspirations you've got there." It was almost cute how hard the kid tried to make a place for himself. Dick fought the urge to tousle his hair fondly, if only because he thought the kid might actually bite, involving himself with layering the top slice of bread onto his finished sandwich instead. "Anyway, if you're going for Wayne Industries, you'll have to beat Tim first. He's the best."

"Dick, really…" Tim protested. He had flushed a flattered pink though, just the faintest coloration high along his cheekbones. It was utterly endearing. "I don't think…"

"Drake?" Damian sneered while Dick took a mouthful of lettuce and ham and onions. "The stand-in? No, Father's company needs a real leader."

At Damian's side, Tim rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth tightening just a hair unhappily.

"If you want to spend quality time with him, be my guest. But," Tim warned, "it'll have to be on the driving range."

"What? Why?" Dick nearly choked on his mouthful in his dismay, swallowing hurriedly. Even Damian frowned.

"Bruce has decided it a fit punishment to make Damian repair your bike." Tim leaned back impassively, and that… that seemed downright cruel, unless...

"You're good with mechanics?" Dick looked at the youngest curiously, but Damian only waved him off.

"Mother made sure to train me in numerous valuable skills."

"Mother?"

"Talia," Tim replied, and the furrowing of his eyebrows was definitely disapproval. Dick must have looked dangerously close to a hug, because Tim's eyes narrowed knowingly. "You can fawn all over him as much as you want tomorrow."

"But… there must be fawning tonight!"

Tim laughed at his pout, reaching for the forgotten Zesti and lifting it to his lips only to pause. He blinked down at the can before setting it back down, seeming to think better of it.

"You will keep your hands to yourself!" Damian threatened, but Dick's attention was now elsewhere. Tim hopped down and walked around to pour the contents of the can into the sink. Dick watched him curiously, raising an eyebrow when Tim turned back around.

"Didn't feel like it after all." He smiled disarmingly. Dick was about to call him on the lie, but when he opened his mouth, he yawned instead.

"Guess it'll have to be tomorrow after all," he replied sheepishly.

* * *

After Dick disappeared up to his room for the night, Tim was left alone with Damian. Still staring into the empty doorway where their brother had vanished only moments before, he raised an eyebrow.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" The room was colder without Dick, filled with the chilling hum of the refrigerator and the bleak blue glow of electrical indicator lights. His own voice was as sterile as the gleaming counters. "Your attempts are becoming obvious." Beside him, Damian shifted angrily.

"I was working with time constraints," he snapped, displaying teeth. "With Grayson around, I can't afford to waste all my time on you anymore."

Tim turned finally to regard him, staring back coolly, considering. The threat was minimal, but still…

"If you touch Dick," Tim smiled, "you'll wish you'd never heard of Batman and Robin." He turned on his heel, leaving Damian alone in the empty room.

* * *

**Author Notes:** This is one of those I'm-going-to-hell-for-writing-this fics. If you are one of those brightly optimistic people who retain hope this sequel is somehow magically going to "fix" the damage of the previous installment or make it all better, you should not be reading this. That said, in re-reading HOL, while I still like the concept a lot obviously, it was my first fic in the Batfam verse and there were a lot of cliché or repetitious elements. In comparison, now that I've read more fics in this fandom and know the pitfalls a little better, I hope you'll find the sequel more… streamlined. Less annoying backstory.

There isn't really any mention of Alfred in this story. Mostly because I'm using his responsibilities (tending to the wounded, bringing food to the prisoner) to knit the boys together. Maybe he's still around, strongly disapproving somewhere, but we won't talk about him.

Also, Dick is not a dork. I think he gives his family more leeway with explanations and secrets than others, so he hasn't quite realized how serious things are yet. He will.

There will be more serious Jason next chapter. Apparently he isn't in the basement. XD

Question: Do you get my title? If so, did you get it before or after you read my definition?


	2. Friction

.

**Chapter 2**

Friction

Dick woke up unaccountably energetic the next morning with the sure knowledge that all the people he cared about most were close by, safe within the same walls. Even if the murky gray light filtering through the windows was the same as always, it felt bright and new all the same. He swung himself into the hall with a hand on the doorframe like a pivot, reaching the top of the stairs only to slide down the railing instead, plunging into the welcoming warmth of the first floor below. Not even Jason's festering frustration as he passed the open door could make him lose his smile.

"Dick…" Jason moaned, face down in his pillow with the air of one trying to suffocate himself. "Dick, if you have any pity at all…"

"You've got it good, you know." It was actually uncharacteristically kind of Bruce to keep Jason at the manor instead of letting him serve his sentence in Blackgate. Dick found himself wholeheartedly approving this tactic of keeping his brother close so the family could watch over him. Whatever he had done—and he _had_ done it, Dick didn't believe him innocent for a second, not anymore—subjecting him to the good will of the rest of the family seemed a fit punishment. Let the man cry foul play, there was no doubt in Dick's mind that he had brought this on himself and deserved every second of pleasant family atmosphere Bruce saw fit to inflict upon him.

Jason turned his head enough to stare at him, aghast.

"Good…?" he spluttered. "I'm _handcuffed_ to the _bed_!" Maybe they _could _have found a different way to keep the man locked down, but well, it wasn't anything Jason couldn't handle. "Did I mention the_ bedtime stories?!_" His expression said Shoot Me Now.

"Don't worry, Jay." Dick grinned. "It'll be good for you."

"Don't think you can escape! It's only a matter of time before they suck you in too!" But Dick wasn't listening, already heading farther down the hall.

He reached the study, finding Bruce comfortably situated on one of the sofas, basking in the gray morning light that was as bright as Gotham ever got.

"Morning, B!" Dick braced a hand on the man's knee, leaning over to steal one of the pages Bruce had already turned over before retreating to the other sofa. Bruce only grunted.

Dick looked down at the page he'd stolen. It was always good to see which stories made it to Gotham and what newsworthy events his family had been up to. It didn't take long before he was deep in an article about the recent gang warfare, sharing the study in companionable silence with Bruce.

* * *

Jason paced, as much as he could with one arm still handcuffed to the headboard: forward a foot and back a foot. Each iteration felt tighter, his leash choking him short, each turn at the end whiplash sharp and getting sharper, his frustration growing. At the end of one particularly harsh turn, brought up short by the same arm pulled taut behind him yet again, he jerked furiously hard on the handcuff—it was solid, no chained links to pry apart, and while it did slide along a metal rail as part of the headboard, that was soldered down. The lock no longer used a key either, now requiring a fingerprint after one of his earlier attempts to break free. He was fast running out of escape plans.

If the mechanical parts had no more exploitable flaws, he'd just have to work on the human parts of his cage, but Bruce was a rock and he'd almost given up on getting through to Tim. The kid had helped put him in here in the first place after all. He'd tried to help the kid and this was what he got for his troubles: solitary confinement. Maybe not so solitary. It would have been _better_ if it were solitary. He'd take the painful emptiness of the room every time over Bruce's very much unwelcome company at least once a day and Tim's attempted camaraderie when he brought meals or books to share. Or worse, the two of them together. Slowly breaking down his defenses with their persistent presence.

Working on Tim wasn't going so well at all, and now Dick had come along. Dick was his one hope out of this mess, and the man wasn't taking him seriously.

No, he hadn't given up his plots to escape, but after the first three tries he'd had to slow down his approach, patiently pry at his family's weaknesses instead of headlong breaking out.

Movement by the door had him turning sharply to see who was there. Heaven help him, he was starting to look forward to the replacement's visits just for the company. Or someone to needle. Anything to break the monotony. Anything to keep him from going insane in these four walls.

Because he wasn't ready to give in.

He couldn't just sit there and pretend they were all one happy family. He couldn't accept Tim's warm smiles or Bruce's companionable silence, even if he wanted it.

It was Tim this time. The kid walked in, bearing a tray covered with toast and eggs and orange juice, setting it on the nightstand. Somehow Tim's appearance didn't precede the relief from the suffocating silence it usually did. Maybe it was Dick's arrival riling up the old animosity, the indignation of his situation. Whatever the case, he could only find a deep well of biting causticity in store for his would-be brother.

He caught Tim's wrist before the boy could say anything absurdly cheerful.

"Sure you want to be down here with me instead of with Bluebird?" His nail grated over the kid's wrist, pressing down hard where the cuff trapped his own. "I'm the bad brother after all." It was a bit stupid. Acerbic and stupid. His issues weren't really with Tim. Tim was a good kid, who'd only ever treated him as an (undeservedly) wise older brother. A kid who was just caught in Batman's web as much as the rest of them were.

"Don't worry. I've had my rabies shots." He smiled knowingly, looking up at Jason from beneath a fan of coal-black eyelashes. "This won't work to push me away either. We're not giving up on you." With his free hand, he reached up to push a little on Jason's chest, as if he didn't already have his full attention. "I'll stay as long as you want." And that was just wrong. Wrong that the kid should give him everything like that. Should say it like that. Like he cared.

He would've stopped the boy, captured that hand before it touched him, connected them, but he already had one graceful wrist in custody, and his other hand was still attached to the bed.

He wouldn't accept this.

"You have a naively optimistic view of me, kid." Always a kid to Jason, even if lately he didn't much look like one. "What's going on? You dragging Bluebird into it now too?"

"Dick came home to see us because he cares about us."

"Because he doesn't know what you're really about." Tim only frowned at him. Jason tugged at the kid's wrist still trapped in the circle of his fingers, causticity eking into desperation. "Come on, baby bird, I know you're still in there somewhere. Bats doesn't own you completely yet. You know this is wrong."

He hadn't given up working on Tim, even if the kid was as stubborn as the old man.

"Yes. We should never have left you on your own for so long. Not when you needed us." _We_. The kid was practically a little clone. But there were edges there, places still where Batman and Robin didn't quite mesh and Jason could pry at the gaps and try to get under.

"Whatever Bats has on you, whatever he's done to you, you can fight it!"

"Why are you so determined to hate us? Why can't you believe we just want you back?!"

"Not B," Jason growled. "Never B. He wants the kid I used to be."

"He _loves_ us!" Those blue eyes were wide, earnest. The kid really believed it. "He gave us a purpose! A home!" It was almost sad, that misplaced devotion. If it wasn't so frustrating.

"You don't lock people up you love!" He was going to pry apart all of the kid's defenses if he had to. "You don't force them to stay with you!" Expose him, raw and vulnerable, to the truth. "This isn't a home, it's a prison!" Even if it destroyed him.

"You know that's not true."

"It is!"

"You were once part of this team. I know you understand. You were once Robin, just like I–"

"Stop it, Tim! _Stop_ it! _You're_ _not_ _Robin!_" It was the anger boiling up, the frustration for his own inability to accept anyone else in his old role—feelings he'd thought long lost dredged up by the friction and spilled, blistering hot, over them both. "There is no Robin! Robin _died!_"

For a full minute there was only silence settling back in, Tim's mouth open around words that wouldn't come out. Then the kid threw the tray at him, food and all. Jason should have seen it coming—those huge, wounded blue eyes. For all the little replacement had grown up all beautiful and limber and shrewd, he was still broken like all of them inside. Jason knocked the tray away before it could hit him in the face—if not before the contents splattered his clothes and face and arm—but his room was empty again. The younger boy had fled.

Jason took a good five minutes to seethe, storming back and forth again, wringing his wrist bloody. He'd clearly won. He'd gotten to Tim. So why did he feel angrier than ever?

Later, trying to wipe tapioca pudding from his hair one-handed, he realized he'd perhaps been a little harsh, blowing up like that on the kid. Especially about Robin—the one thing that held them all together, the one thing Tim treasured above all. He really was an idiot.

Then he looked down at the mess Tim had left: upturned plates and glinting silverware.

And he grinned.

* * *

Dick was almost to the end of his article, contemplating the ramifications of such warfare on Gotham's streets, when his musings were broken by Tim's sudden appearance in the doorway, looking flustered and a little too wide-eyed.

"Tim, what's wrong?" Dick asked, setting the paper aside immediately. Even Bruce looked up, tilting the top of his own newspaper to watch, but Tim's attention was all for Dick. He strode across the distance, settling on hands and knees on the seat next to Dick, slender legs half under him and half draped over the edge.

"You're going to stay, right, Dick?" Tim leaned forward earnestly, hands on the seat between them, fingernails tightening agitatedly in the upholstery.

"For a while," he hedged, taken aback by this turn and wishing immediately that he could give Tim the answer he obviously wanted. The boy studied him for a minute, and Dick forced himself still under the examination of those too-smart blue eyes and that tight, tilted mouth—his little brother had grown so much lately—until the boy's shoulders slowly sank with acceptance.

"It isn't the same without you." The tension seemed to leave him all of a sudden and he slumped forward, resting his head against Dick's shoulder. And that… Well, Dick smiled. Oh, he'd missed this family. Missed this boy. He hadn't realized how much.

"I have to go back to the 'haven eventually." He pulled the boy closer with an arm around his shoulders, giving in to the urge to run his fingers soothingly through Tim's silky hair.

"Why?" Tim asked, eyes sliding closed under the caress of Dick's fingers.

"I'm needed there."

"You're needed here." Tim's blue eyes opened again to regard him silently.

"I'm too old to stay in the manor," Dick teased. Across the way, Bruce made some little noise of disagreement. "Oh, you know it's true, B! I grew up! I fledged!" He looked down at Tim for the last part, wondering if the boy had taken the hint.

"Never." Bruce hummed thoughtfully. "Even grown up birds could stick around a little more often."

"Seriously, B?" Dick shook his head, torn between skepticism and incredulity.

"Maybe I like having you all under my wings." He was looking down at the paper while he said it.

"It's warmer that way," Tim agreed.

"What is with the two of you?" Dick's smile eked into dismay, looking back and forth between them. "You're supposed to let us fledglings fly free and all that!" Finally he turned to Tim, suddenly sly. "It's almost time you fledged too, Little Brother. Don't deny it!" Tim blinked wide eyes at him. And he looked so tempting like that. Dick pounced, flouncing the younger boy back into the mound of throw pillows along the opposite arm of the sofa.

"No, Dick!" Tim's eyes widened farther, but it was a token protest, and it was too late anyway. Dick had already dug fingers into the boy's ribs, tickling mercilessly until Tim's laughter choked out his protests, ringing into the far corners of the room, and he was squirming deliciously under the assault.

"Look at you! All fine feathers and pristine pinions!" Dick caught one long, slender arm, holding it out and pretending to examine illusory feathers while Tim huffed breathlessly, still splayed in glorious disarray. "When did you get all this plumage? Where's the little downy hatchling who loved to follow me around? What did you do with him?" With wicked glee, he proceeded to search for that little hatchling, fingers finding all Tim's weak spots, making him gasp and writhe helplessly. The boy's bare feet thudded uselessly against the cushions, toes curling in his mirth, face still lit with delight.

Across the way, Bruce had gone back to reading, but there was a poorly stifled smile turning up the corner of his mouth. Dick's grin widened in response. He'd missed this family _so_.

* * *

After Dick had finally soaked in enough physical contact and gone to get breakfast, Tim lay limply sprawled out along the sofa where his brother had left him, staring emptily at the ceiling. The haze of pleasure had dissipated quickly in the wake of Dick's departure. Give up Robin? Robin was the only reason Bruce wanted him.

"He's right," Bruce said, as though he'd been listening to Tim's thoughts. He folded the paper and set it aside. "You don't need these… downy feathers anymore." Tim sat up, twisting around to more fully take in the man across from him.

"You don't want me… as Robin?" The stark and sudden feeling of estrangement caught him by surprise, like another one of Gotham's moldering ledges crumbling beneath his feet. He could only stare blankly, uncomprehendingly, heart thudding in alarm as everything seemed to drop away.

"No, Robin, listen to me." Bruce got up and came to sit beside him, strong hand gripping Tim's knee, thumb pushing into the hollow around the patella, rubbing at the tendon there. Tim could only look up at him, caught mid-fall with only that touch to moor him. "You'll always be Robin. It'll always be a part of you, but you can be more than that. You don't have to be _just_ Robin."

"Not just Robin," Tim echoed emptily.

"You're capable of operating independently now. You've been capable of it for a while. I think you're ready." The man's thumb continued to rub reassuringly, but the corners of Tim's mouth pulled down in a frown. Was this some kind of test?

"I don't want this to end."

"It won't." That thumb pushed a little into the notch of his knee again. "I'll never completely let you go." It shouldn't have been so reassuring. "But I think you've already chosen colors for yourself." His smile was fond, commenting on the reduction in green Tim had made to the Robin suit some time back. Tim turned so that he could hug the man—press his face into Bruce's chest and find Batman in the smell of sweat and Kevlar that never really left him. The man murmured his contentment, more of a bass rumble. His large hand stroked down Tim's back, much like one stroking down ruffled feathers. "You've grown up so much. Let me see what kind of bird you've become." Tim felt the tension slowly seep away.

"When I'm ready?"

"When you're ready." Bruce's hand came to a thoughtful rest over the swelling of vertebrae between Tim's shoulder blades, and if his fingers happened to be gently pressing at one of the sedating pressure points, it might have been accidental. "Jason might be able to offer some ideas."

"Right before he strangles me and makes his escape." The curve of Tim's lips held no humor, half-pressed against the man's shirt.

"I'd hoped he would come around by now." Bruce's fingers tightened a little. Tim pulled back to look up at him, to smile Robin's reassuring smile. The one Batman needed.

"He will." Dick's arrival had renewed Jason's stubborn defiance, but his resistance was crumbling. His desperation was proof of that. "It's nice having Dick around at least."

"Yes. You two get along well." Bruce looked down at him meaningfully. "Wouldn't it be nice if he stayed on a more permanent basis?"

* * *

**Author Notes:** I hope this helps fix the impression of Jason a little. I know from Dick's point of view last chapter he looked a little… ridiculous? Tim is my favorite character, so there will be a lot of him too (even if I feel I'm struggling with him in this fic more than most, maybe because of how happy he is here during a time in the comics when he was so depressed, maybe that's why it feels wrong). I'm also giving him a little push here, because it's going to be hard for him to give up Robin without Bruce's death. *shakes head* This fic is getting so long. Every time I turn around it gains another handful of scenes and a new chapter. It's nearly 15,000 words now and I'm betting on 20,000. Definitely a big jump from the previous installment.

Oh, my wonderful reviewers, I love you so much. I want to give you everything you want! I never want to stop posting!


	3. Dissension

.

**Chapter 3**

Dissension

Grayson was not only blind to the continued attempts on his life, he was also stupid, Damian decided. The only reason the man was still alive was because he possessed some kind of sixth sense and had unholy fast reflexes. That, and Drake had undermined his attempt last night to asphyxiate the man by increasing the inert gas in his room.

Grayson also appeared to think Damian's ambush attempts were part of some big play-fighting game.

This particular time, when Damian had launched himself down from the chandelier and crashed into Grayson's back, the resulting tussle ended up with them falling to the floor and rolling around in a tangle of limbs. Grayson fought dirty, distracting Damian, who was in the middle of establishing a death grip around his neck, by blowing softly into his ear. Damian emitted a high-pitched yelp and released his hold at the tingling sensation. He was flipped over in an instant, Grayson grinning triumphantly as he sat on his stomach and engaged in a merciless tickling spree.

"Surrender, for I have won!" Grayson crowed like it was all one big game.

To Damian's utmost humiliation, choked laughter burst free from his throat. "Hahahaha… _n-n-never!"_ he swore as he gasped for air. To add insult to injury, he felt tiny beads of moisture fall from the corners of his eyes from the lack of oxygen.

"So cute!" Grayson ceased his underhanded tactics to stare in awe at him.

Before whipping out his cell phone and snapping a picture of Damian's teary-eyed, flushed red face and mussed hair.

"This is going to be my new wallpaper!" Grayson cooed.

Grayson was going to die.

Very soon.

As soon as Damian got his breath back.

And his pride.

* * *

When Dick went looking for Bruce mid-afternoon, it was to find him with Tim in the labs down in the cave, the two of them bent over some project in a beaker Dick couldn't quite see. As he approached, Tim picked up a clipboard and tucked it against his side, turning to go.

"Hey, Dick." Tim smiled as he slipped past, presumably to go scan the notes on the clipboard into the batcomputer. He looked happy again—that brilliant, openly pleased expression from last night. It stopped Dick in his tracks. That difference. Something about that lack of reservation. Something about the way he looked at Bruce and Dick, that bright happiness… Dick was totally for his little brother becoming closer to Bruce. Tim needed affection, even if he didn't know how to ask for it, and Bruce needed someone to ground him. Heaven knew he, himself, had been on shaky terms with the man for long enough. It was nice to see Tim wasn't making that mistake.

So why did it bother him?

Frowning, he made his way over to Bruce, who was prodding a swirling black cloud in a beaker.

"What is it?" Dick asked, leaning over curiously.

"Awhile back," the man replied, still focused on the beaker, "Wayne Industries was attacked by nanotech bent on assimilating all our technology. After it was neutralized, I confiscated some of it. Robin and I have been studying it, seeing if we can put it to better purposes." Bruce's mouth twitched with that almost-smile of his as he turned to regard his oldest. Dick was well aware his eyebrows had hiked up again, staring with renewed interest at the fine black tech in the beaker.

"I miss all the good stuff in Bludhaven."

"You could always stay." The softening of Bruce's eyes was fondness creeping in.

"You know I can't." They'd tried that. It hadn't worked out. Thinking about it only brought back that melancholy that accompanied lost opportunities and strained family ties. Then a large hand covered his where it rested on the table, and Dick looked up, surprised. He hadn't realized he'd taken to staring down at the steel table, grimacing.

"Stay anyway." Bruce's thumb stroked over his knuckles, comforting, connecting. Dick had always been particularly vulnerable to physical stimuli, and it was so easy to let the caress lull him into a sense of security, but…

"It's not that easy."

"Why not?"

"I have my own place now." Dick gestured, frustrated and uncertain. "I have to go back."

"There are so many reasons for you to stay." Yeah, one of them had tried to kill him. Dick fought the fond smile, shaking his head. It was true that Damian needed him, but Tim was the one he was worried about. Tim, whose smile was sometimes too bright and whose cheerfulness was sometimes too strained, like he was trying to reassure Dick more than anything. Tim, who looked happier than ever on the outside, but more broken up inside. Tim, who was hurting.

What was his little brother hiding?

"Did something happen to Tim?"

"Damian's arrival has caused some… turbulence." Bruce eyed him askance. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"No. I mean… that must be it." He knew his worry, his uncertainty, must still be in his smile, but he tried for it anyway as he wrapped his arms around Bruce one last time and tried to let the man's warmth reassure him. "Thank you."

* * *

The little demon brat had been sitting cross-legged in the middle of the doorway for a little over four hours now, staring at him. Jason couldn't tell if this was some new form of meditation or if the pest had fallen asleep like that, his features narrowed in a fixed scowl, blue eyes fierce and unwavering. It was unnerving either way.

"Think you could find something else to stare at?"

"It's my duty as Father's heir to see that you are properly guarded. Though I don't see why he doesn't just dispose of you and get it over with." Not asleep then. Such a pity.

"That's a no for you releasing me, I take it?"

"Tt. Father says you tried to kill him. I don't know what he sees in you people."

Jason decided that whatever was bugging the brat, it wasn't his problem, and went back to push-ups against the headboard. Or he tried to.

"I mean, what is wrong with this family?" Damian burst out, apparently not realizing the irony of that statement. If it were possible, his scowl had deepened. Jason sighed, resigned to dealing with the moodiness, and looked over at the little rain cloud in his doorway meaningfully.

"Bluebird hug-fest on you?" Really, when had he become the family therapist? Or was he just the designated outlet for Robins disgruntled with the rest of the family? The little demon had probably been doing something too cute for Dick to ignore. Like trying to rig the microwave to explode.

"He tickled me," Damian admitted sullenly to a very interesting spot on the wall, tips of his ears pink. Jason nearly choked on his laughter. The sound startled him. It had been awhile since he'd found anything to laugh at.

"He's impossible when he wants attention," Jason agreed, feeling just the tiniest bit vindicated that someone else was suffering too.

"I mean, I attempted to eliminate him, and he _tickled_ me!" Clearly the brat had never dealt with retaliatory action quite like this, his little ninja world imploding under the strain. "It's like I'm stuck in some Disney film! The AristoBats or something!" Apparently Dick had introduced him to the wonderful world of animation as well.

"I see the indoctrination has begun." Jason raised an eyebrow. "Aristocats already? Careful, it's a slippery slide from there to Bambi." He was half-joking, but it was true that Dick might make sure the brat had a full Disney education.

"Bambi?" Damian asked warily.

"Yep," Jason replied solemnly. "Bambi." He flopped onto his back, free hand pillowed under his head. "Stick around much longer and their whole family act will domesticate you too. You're already half tame, sleeping in the house, wanting the master's praise."

"I'm not a cat, Todd." Damian glowered disdainfully. "Not that your inability to provide meaningful analogies surprises me."

"I'm just saying…" Jason shrugged off the protest, smirking at the ceiling. "How long until you're declawed and never think of chasing birds again?"

"I cannot be broken so easily." Damian dismissed the notion.

"Really? Do you honestly think he'll still want you if you kill any of his birds? You're already domesticated, brat, you just don't know it yet."

Damian didn't deign to respond, outburst apparently over. He went back to scowling, twice as furiously, perhaps insulted, or perhaps genuinely concerned about Bruce's plans for him. Jason let him stew, turning smugly back to his push-ups.

* * *

"Kid couldn't make it?" Jason asked. He didn't have to look up to know it was their mandatory family time again, to feel the distinct Tim-lessness of the presence at the door. Not that he was surprised by the absence after his quarrel with the kid that morning. And he certainly didn't mind having one less witness to his humiliation, not one bit. When the two of them were together, when Tim was curled up against Bruce's leg or worse, settled next to Jason—like Jason needed the company or something—the sappiness was thick enough to choke on.

"Robin seemed upset by the prospect," Bruce replied, blue eyes knowing. "Did you upset him?"

"The kid isn't any of my concern."

"Yet you protected him when he ran to you." The man sounded pleased by that. Of course he was. His boys were taking _care_ of each other. Like a proper family. Jason glowered at the wall.

He could still see that night, the boy curled in the bed he'd practically thieved, unmolested in sleep by the cares of consciousness. Jason could still feel the protectiveness that had welled in him at the sight. Back when they had both been free. Before Tim had gone off the deep end.

"You care about him." Those words were damning. Jason bristled.

"I care about keeping the kid away from you!" Not like that had done any good, ever. Tim really wasn't his responsibility. The kid had proven multiple times over that he didn't want Jason's help getting out of this situation. He only wished he knew why, what had changed the kid's mind.

"I hope you'll come to see differently."

"Good luck." Jason settled on the bed, obstinately facing the wall. He wasn't about to make this any easier on Bruce. If the man wanted him all complacent and docile as Tim, he could think again. Jason didn't roll over for anyone. Of course, that didn't get him out of story time…

He couldn't see the man now, but he heard the flutter of paper anyway as Bruce opened the book he'd been idly fingering in his lap, turning to the worn bookmark. There was a brief hesitation and then the man's voice spilled over the room: inflective and deep, using every word to tell the story.

Jason's scowl deepened and he wondered if he could strangle Bruce with the sheets, but no… he couldn't overpower the man like this, and if he tried and failed, Bruce might find his other weapon. Better to wait for Tim. Better to work on the kid.

He was just going to have to suffer through another night of Swiss Family Robinson. The last night, thank heavens. It wasn't that the book was completely awful, but that Bruce had obviously chosen it for its family values…

"Darkness has closed around me," Bruce read. "For the final time my united family slumbers beneath my care."

Jason buried his head in the pillow while Bruce's warm baritone filled the room with his deceptively caring words, and fingered comfortingly the fork he'd hidden underneath, in a little hole in the mattress. Tim would come back eventually. He always did, no matter how cruel Jason was, no matter what he did. Tim would come back and Jason would be ready…

"Tomorrow this last chapter of my journal will pass into the care of my eldest son. From a distance I greet thee, Europe! I greet thee, beloved old Switzerland!"

Finally, _finally_, Bruce fell silent, the words trailing off. The back cover fell closed with a gentle thud, and Bruce set the book aside.

"We'll have to start a new story tomorrow. I believe it's Robin's turn to pick." Bruce didn't make any move to leave though. The man's presence was still thick and heavy in the room. Jason waited, not giving him an inch, and eventually there was a sigh followed by a small rustling sound as the man stood. Large fingers brushed Jason's hair.

"Good night, son."

Jason's hands clenched down on the pillow, furious, but he wouldn't blow things now. Not now. The sound of the door closing for the night was a release, but Jason held onto his anger. He'd never been able to let it go, and he was thankful for that just then. The anger was the reminder of everything that was wrong, the only thing keeping him sane when he wanted to give in.

The anger was all he had left.

* * *

Later that night, after Batman and Robin had left for patrol, Damian stared at the pile of rubble before him, a little daunted, even if he'd never admit it. The crash had reduced Nightwing's bike to a twisted carcass, the front crushed irreparably, jagged strips of metal protruding from the beast like snapped ribs.

Across from him, Grayson whistled despairingly.

"This is going to be one tough fix." The idiot had volunteered to stay with him tonight instead of patrolling with Father and Drake like he really wanted to do. Of course, it was true that his transportation was busted and that it was somewhat, kind of, mostly, Damian's fault, but it wasn't like there weren't other vehicles the man could take.

"You don't have to help."

"Of course I do! What are brothers for?" Expertly, Grayson flipped and caught one of the wrenches, then twirled it around his hand.

"Annoying the rest of us apparently."

"You obviously just need some company to cheer you up!" Damian couldn't figure out if the man was really so dense he couldn't take a hint or if this was some subtle form of sarcasm. "Anyway," Grayson continued, "it'll be fun! Just the two of us!"

"Touch me and I'll break your fingers," Damian replied when Grayson made to tousle his hair. Apparently there was no getting rid of the man. He was stuck with that big, dopey smile, doomed to spend half the night listening to Grayson natter. Damian stared into those honestly happy blue eyes and wondered if this was some sort of additional punishment. At least it came with one benefit: the crestfallen expression on Drake's face when Grayson had told him they could patrol together tomorrow night instead. Damian fixed that expression in his mind—a pleasant thought to see him through the night—and got to work.

And if it turned out that Grayson actually had some usefulness handing him wrenches and pry bars, and if his consistent chatter was not so much a distraction as friendly background noise, and if the company actually lessened the oppressive gloom of the cave, well… at least the night wasn't altogether unpleasant.

Sometime later in the wee hours of the morning, Grayson's chatter turned into serial yawns until Damian gave up and threw a wrench at him, which the man only ducked absently.

"Go get some sleep," he growled, "or I'll knock you out with the pry bar next and leave your unconscious body for Father and Drake to find when they return." Really, the ridiculousness. Grayson only laughed.

"I knew you cared!" But he allowed Damian to chase him off, waving haphazardly with an, "I'm going! I'm going!" and another yawn. Damian's considering blue eyes followed the man into the dark well of the stairs, and if he found himself altering his plans to get rid of this second contender for his throne from slow strangulation to a quick, painless poison at a much later date (_much_ later), well… it still didn't mean he _cared_.

* * *

Not long after Dick went to sleep, Damian crept upstairs and clung between ceiling beams, a shadow among shadows, hanging above the hall. He didn't have to wait long. The soft sigh of footsteps heralded the coming of his target, unsuspecting in his exhaustion after patrol. Damian clung tighter, sinking deeper into the shadows, listening to the footsteps draw closer. Just a second more. Another step.

Now.

Damian detached from the beams, springing down onto his unsuspecting target. Something must have alerted him though, because Drake spun at the last second, round kick catching Damian in the side. It sent him tumbling, winded, dazed with surprise. That kick had hurt more than usual. Drake was still wearing Robin, minus the cape. But no matter. Damian was already bounding to his feet.

Grayson he could live with. Grayson he could almost like. But Drake… Drake was insufferable. The older boy had taken his rightful place by Father's side, and Father doted on him, treated him like some perfect, precious, irreplaceable family heirloom. Father had _picked_ him, bought him with blood.

If he broke the older boy, maybe Father would look at him.

"Another ill-conceived assassination attempt?" Drake asked, disappointed. "Why can't you accept me as your brother?"

"You're no brother of mine!" Damian replied, derisive. He lunged. "You were nothing more than Father's attempt to replace the family he lost. But now he has me. You're no longer needed."

"You're wrong." Drake dodged the attack, sweeping out with his foot again. "He cares about us. You don't know what he went through to bring us home."

"You mean how he killed your parents?" Damian sneered, flipping backward to avoid the kick, hands briefly touching down, before he was attacking again, not letting up. Not now that the other boy had slowed in shock. "What _does_ it feel like to watch your father die? I wouldn't know."

"You know?" Drake froze, eyes wide. Damian's bare-footed kick actually landed, sending the taller boy tumbling across the cold marble floor and crashing into a chair. He hadn't even been able to control that fall. Heh.

"Tt. Of course I know." He followed, punch taking Drake full in the face. "Grandfather told me all about father's proclivities for orphaning boys and taking them home." Damian had spent a year afterward certain that Father would come for him, that Father would kill Talia (or try to, Mother was a force to be reckoned with) and take him home. The real son. The true son. But he hadn't. An oversight, surely. But then Father had _never_ exerted much effort to keep Damian, not like the effort he'd put into keeping the others. Damian didn't understand it. Was he not important enough to warrant Father killing to collect him? Was he in some way inadequate? What was it that Drake had that he didn't?

Frustrated, he used the older boy's shock to hit him again, aiming fists at his face, kicking at ribs.

"Then why? Don't you realize how lucky you are?" Drake caught the next punch, shock wearing off, eyes narrowed dangerously. "You get your father _and_ Batman." The older boy's gauntleted hand grabbed Damian's bare arm, using the double grip to flip him into the wall.

"That isn't good enough." Damian staggered to his feet, baring his teeth. " Not if you get them too." Oh yes, Drake's next kick snapped with restrained fury. It was worth the taunt, even if the kick sent him back to the floor. He grunted, struggling to stand again—because he wouldn't kneel at Drake's feet, not for anything, not even if every single one of his bones was broken. But he couldn't seem to get his feet under him, couldn't pull himself up with his arms. His limbs felt heavy, sluggish, his entire body weighted down. It didn't make sense. As much as it galled him to admit it, Drake hadn't been unduly violent, going for Father's nonlethal contact points. He wasn't that badly injured. So why…?

Drake stared down at him, knowing, and Damian tried to reach up, tried to lash out, _anything_. With growing horror, his eyes slid to Drake's hands, and now he could see… Neuromuscular inhibitor, his mind registered, taking in the traces of powder just visible from this distance on the black gauntlets. Drake had known, he realized. Every time he'd hit the older boy, he'd only been undermining himself.

"Oh, Damian," Drake said, slipping an arm under his knees—knees that stayed traitorously limp no matter how he told them to twist and kick. "Why couldn't you have just accepted me?" Damian's eyes were still wide. He couldn't move. Not a muscle. The older boy lifted him carefully into his arms, and Damian couldn't tell him to keep his filthy hands to himself, couldn't fight it, couldn't _crawl_… He seethed silently as Drake carried his limp, useless body up the stairs, the press of hands on his knee and shoulder burning brands. Then they reached his room and the older boy set him down on the bed with utmost consideration, pulling the covers up. It only stung worse. Damian couldn't even turn his head away.

On his way out, Drake stopped in the door. Damian could just make out his silhouette from the angle at which he'd been set.

"Good night, Baby Brother." And then the door closed, leaving Damian in the darkness and the humiliation.

* * *

**Author Notes:** I am so sorry this took so long (after you all gave me such beautiful reviews, too!). As usual, I finished the beginning and the end of the fic pretty quickly and got stuck in the middle chapters. I need to extend a scene in ch. 4 really quick, but it'll be up in two weeks this time, I promise.

Tim will point this out next chapter, but of course they aren't going to read Cinderella, because it's a story about abusive adoptive families. But they _would_ read… Swiss Family Robinson, a story about a family banding together in difficult times. Subliminal messaging! (and if it doesn't sound right to you, it isn't; I had to switch words out so as not to infringe on copyright)

The instance where Jason protected Tim is, of course, referring to this story's prequel: House of Lies.

I stole quite a bit of this chapter from my beta, Schnickledooger. Used with her permission. She wrote at least an entire scene and a couple lines. I am eternally grateful for her help.

The reviews for this story. Jeez. How come my other stories never get such amazing reviewers? *happily finishes this story before any others*


	4. The Incarcerated

.

**Chapter 4**

The Incarcerated

Tim hummed a little as he entered Jason's room late the next morning, book in hand. The previous day's offenses hadn't been forgotten, but it was so good to have Dick back, to have everyone together for once, that he couldn't hold any displeasure. He even smiled brightly at Jason across the room—that same infectious smile he'd been using more and more often lately—refusing to let the other boy's stubborn dismissal of their attentions dampen his attitude toward him.

"Another family therapy session?" Jason let his head fall back against the headboard with a dull thud when he saw who was at his door.

"You're one of us, Jason. We're brothers."

"You can save the bonding trip and pretty speeches."

"But I so enjoy our time together." Tim let his biting undertone and the suddenly too-tight corners of his smile needle Jason over the abrupt and hurtful end to their last encounter—let him see the sharp shards shifting under the surface. Jason saw more than anyone the mess inside—the cracked glass poorly glued together only he could recognize—and it was cruel even by Jason's standards to batter that with the crowbar he'd used last time. The man looked away uncomfortably.

"Just get it over with."

"Jason." Tim let the smile slip away—it wasn't working anyway—reaching out to brush the man's knee with his fingers. "I'm not giving up on you. If you would just… accept us. Everything would be better." Tim hadn't lied earlier, not really. He did enjoy spending time with the man. Or he would, if a large percentage of their interaction hadn't been spent in one-sided cajoling, outright arguing, or physical abuse.

But Jason still wasn't looking at him. Resigning himself to another one-sided visiting session, Tim settled himself on the bed, back pressed to the far wall, book resting on his raised knees. His bare toes curled in the sheets, wedged under the slight lift in Jason's side where spine met hips. He flipped open the cover—warm brown leather under his fingers—and let the words spill out: family and support and sticking together to see through to the end.

"All children, except one, become adults." Whatever Jason claimed, neither Tim nor Bruce had ever read him Cinderella—that fairytale with its poisonous ideas on stepfamilies. The notion that they'd subject him to such lies was ridiculous. "They soon learn that they must become adults…" Not like the book in his hands. It was heavy, a well-loved copy Bruce's father had once given him. Tim could almost feel the adoration that permeated the pages, warming his fingers, infusing his voice as he reverently read aloud the words. "…and the way Windy knew was–"

He didn't get further than the third line before Jason's leg swung around, clipping him in the head as he tried to duck, knocking him sideways. Tim twisted even as the larger boy slammed him down, responding even as he hit the bed. There wasn't a lot of slack on that cuff, but with Tim pinned flat, Jason's legs locked around him, it was enough. There was a flash of silver. Tim just managed to raise his arm in time for the tines of a fork to stab deep into his bicep instead of scraping his neck.

Jason growled, jerking the fork free, and this time Tim got the book shoved into the man's jugular millimeters before the tines of the fork could connect with his own throat. It stopped a hair short, Jason's blue eyes narrowed furiously.

"Let me out of here, Baby Bird."

"Ah. That's where you were keeping the silverware." Tim stared back up at the man above him with infuriating calm. "Trying different tactics?"

"Appealing to your better nature wasn't working," Jason replied. Tim could almost feel the man searching for those cracks under his skin—looking for weaknesses to press down on where he dug in with knees and toes and fingers. If anyone could tear him apart, if anyone could find anything left in him to save, it was Jason. "Let me out."

"Why? Everything's better this way." He pressed the spine of the book he held further into Jason's jugular. "Fork."

"Why, Tim? Dang it, _why_?"

"Fork," Tim repeated patiently. There were some things Jason didn't need to know, secrets that could only hurt them, sharp as razor wire. He had to be careful. It would be all too easy to lose the family he had now, especially Bruce, and he _refused_ to lose anyone else.

"You know, I was actually getting used to you as Robin. Sure, you're a half-pint runt, and a little stalker freak, but you're smart, even clever. Clever enough that I was starting to respect you. Too clever to roll over for a man like Bats."

"I'm just a constant source of disappointment."

"He's hurt you too. And don't try to tell me it wasn't bad. You wouldn't have come to me if it wasn't." That struck a little too close to the truth. Tim frowned.

"He's not perfect. I've forgiven him. I've moved on."

"Have you really? Call me hopeful, but personally I think you're just… _repressing!_" Jason growled, pulling the fork away. Seconds before he could jam it back down, Tim whipped the book around, the heavy leather-bound volume nailing Jason's hand where it held the gleaming silver utensil, knocking the fork out of his grip and sending it skittering across the floor. Simultaneously, it deadened the older boy's hand. It was just enough of an opening for Tim to jerk Jason's shoulder down and use the leverage to overturn him.

"I'm doing what's necessary to keep this family together."

"You knew," Jason accused, staring up at him, and then incredulously. "You knew what I was planning, and you brought a _book_ to defend yourself?"

"Don't underestimate me." He slid off the bed, long strides carrying him across the floor, pausing only to pick up the fork.

The sound of the door clicking closed was oddly final.

* * *

"Robin, what happened?"

Tim blinked to find Bruce right there, blue eyes concerned as they narrowed perceptively on the bloody smear adorning Tim's upper arm, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. The man reached out, fingers wrapping like manacles around his arm, gently restraining as he assessed the damage.

"Misunderstanding with a fork." Tim shrugged as best he could in the man's grip.

"Come." The grip loosened further as Bruce used it to usher him to a sofa, the man's warm hands a gentle guide—always gentle with him despite their size, despite the power they possessed. Tim wasn't easy to intimidate, he was hardly powerless himself, but a part of him felt weak next to this man. "Let's get that attended to." The warmth faded as Bruce pulled away, but he was only gone for a minute, returning with a wet cloth and a roll of gauze.

Bruce pressed the wet cloth to the wound, washing away the blood with caressing circles of his thumb, blue eyes kind. Tim watched him, gazing up at him fondly, memorizing the concerned set of the man's mouth.

He leaned his head against the man's shoulder tiredly, eyes sliding closed at the gentle brush of fingers smoothing layers of gauze around the wound. He knew he would keep it on longer than necessary because Bruce had done it. Every time he moved his arm, he'd feel the reminder of the man's care wrapped tightly there. Any doubt Jason had instilled, words wedged in the cracks of his soul, dulled and dissolved, washing away. Jason just didn't understand.

Then the man was done, fingers leaving off their work of ministration to wrap around Tim's shoulders, pulling him closer against the man's warm side with just enough force to feel safe, protected. He was wanted here.

"Always such a good boy," Bruce murmured approvingly, fingers stroking Tim's shoulder, like he was something whole and beautiful, not shattered. The man didn't see the cracks Jason saw, or maybe he found their sharp edges just another fascinating feature of the boy he'd bought with Jack's murder. Whatever the case, beside Bruce he didn't feel broken; he felt like part of something again, a piece of a whole. Under the gentle stroking of those strong fingers he could feel the cracks melding back together, becoming smooth. Surely, if Jason would just let Bruce in, Bruce could fix him, and Jason would want to stay too, here, where he was wanted like this.

It would have been perfect if not for the agitated expression the man wore.

"What is it?" Tim asked, gazing up into those stormy blue eyes beseechingly. Bruce had given him a home, love, family, and Tim would do anything to make it up to him. "Is it Jason?"

"He's been troubled for awhile."

"He's not happy here," Tim agreed. He reached up to rub the frown lines near Bruce's mouth and the man blinked down at him, not startled, but… as though just then registering the melancholy tilt of Tim's own blue eyes. He smiled under Tim's fingers, just the tiniest bit, perhaps to lighten Tim's worries or perhaps warmed by Tim's attempt to lighten his.

"Jason is family." Bruce's fingers found the tine marks through the gauze, stroking there meaningfully.

"We don't give up on family," Tim replied, shivering at the touch.

"Yes," Bruce agreed, blue eyes narrowing seriously, "but he may require more forceful convincing." And his thumb stilled, pressing down on the wound, just the right amount of pressure to be… forceful. Tim's tongue painted his lips, gaze glued to the mesmerizing press of that thumb, a wonderfully numbing burn just this side shy of painful. Even knowing it was only a fraction of the force the man was capable of applying, he could only find the gesture comforting.

"Of course. We just need to help him see." Tim smiled rapturously, letting the man's fingers against the gauze lull him with the thought of finally having Jason. His brother. "Maybe a nudge in the right direction?"

"Exactly." And now Bruce was smiling down at him, sharing this secret only Tim had been entrusted with, sharing this moment of perfect understanding. "Exactly."

* * *

"No," Damian repeated, arms folded crossly.

"Come on, Little D." Grayson waved the box in front of his face. "There's no better way to get to know each other than through a game of Monopoly." The man's perspective was obviously flawed. Damian didn't want to get to know them so much as he wanted to kill them and be done with it. He glowered obstinately.

"I refuse to participate in such stupidity."

"He doesn't know how to play." Of course Drake would rat him out. The older boy had propped himself up on a couple cushions on the sofa, listening in absently. He hadn't looked away from the laptop sitting on his crossed legs. Judging by the output on the screen, he was messing again with the nanotech project he and Father were so interested in.

"It's a children's game!" Damian huffed. "It serves no purpose!"

"You don't know how to play?" Grayson asked, blinking. "Maybe a different game?"

"He doesn't know how to play _any_ games," Drake repeated absently, typing something on the laptop. Damian ground his teeth. He didn't like looking inept. He liked it even less when Drake pointed it out. And he definitely didn't like the sad, puppy eyes Grayson was now giving him.

"I do too know how to play games," he replied, defensive and fuming. "I know how to play tag." With knives. Somehow this only seemed to make Grayson more determined.

"Don't worry, we'll teach you," the man said. "You'll be fine."

"We?" Drake asked warily, finally looking up.

"_We_," Grayson replied firmly, brandishing the lid of the game box at him. "You too, Timmy!"

"I have to finish my notes…"

"You're not getting out of this. Family time. Come on." Grayson was a force to be reckoned with when it came to spending time with his siblings. Damian tried to edge away into the shadows while the man was distracted with Drake, but Grayson deftly snagged a fistful of his shirt between his shoulders blades, hauling him bodily back.

"You realize some of us have been trained as corporate tycoons, right?" Drake asked exasperatedly, even as he closed the laptop's cover.

"Yes, but you realize our littlest brother likes to use the katana when he doesn't get his way, right?" Grayson grinned wickedly, already setting out pieces of the game. "I think we're even." Damian watched, guarded and wary and intrigued now despite himself. Clearly he was only beginning to grasp the depths of Grayson's deviousness.

He shrugged off the man's grip and straightened his shoulders regally, standing over the coffee table like a little lord.

"Explain to me the purpose of this game. If I deem it worthy of my attention, I shall honor you with my participation."

"It illustrates the danger of monopolies in bankrupting the–" Luckily, Grayson waved Drake off before he could recite some dictionary entry by rote.

"It teaches responsibility in business."

Damian looked back and forth between them consideringly, trying to parse their meaning.

"This will help me run Father's company? Very well." Head held high, he picked a spot a little out of Grayson's reach, settling into place there. If he had to endure this childishness, at least it held some purpose, and at least Drake was stuck in it with him. It was a comforting thought.

And it wasn't like they were watching Bambi.

When Drake and Grayson only looked at each other uncertainly, a little wary over this newfound interest, Damian frowned. "Can you not hurry up? I wish to learn this game quickly, the better to understand ruling my future industry empire with an iron fist!"

"Oh, you asked for it," Drake replied, settling across from him.

"Well, at least you're both interested now." Grayson sat too, smiling as he rifled multi-colored money and doled out pieces, apparently just happy that everyone was getting along.

Of course, it didn't take more than a dozen turns before Damian figured out how to attack the system, and it would have been perfect if the other two participants weren't determined to hassle him.

"You can't bribe the banker to get your way," Drake was saying, "that's not how it works."

"Death threats are a no-no also," Grayson added, arms crossed sternly.

"You are both so naive and commonplace it's pathetic!" Damian replied, flustered and frustrated. "Don't act like Father is a saint! I know he's done some shrewd, underhanded business deals in the past! You can't pass go and expect to gain some margin of profit by straightforward tactics! You end up in debt and dead that way!"

"If you continue to use threats to try to get ahead, I'll be forced to send you to jail!" Grayson warned sternly, the picture of resolute justice and upholding the system, pointing to the little jail square.

Damian ignored him, drawing his katana and pointing it at the steely-eyed boy watching placidly across from him—the one with fifteen multicolored cards arrayed before him.

"Relinquish Pacific Avenue, Drake, or this is war between us!"

Drake's eyes flashed challengingly, both of them ignoring Grayson's yelp of protest.

"Come and get it."

Damian lunged, Drake flipped the table, and the entire idea of Monopoly scattered in multicolored bits and pieces across the floor.

* * *

Jason was on his feet, push-ups forgotten, straining against the handcuff tying him to the bed the moment he registered the black shadow in his doorway out of the corner of his eye. He was in no mood to deal with the sentimental sap of the rest of the family so soon after his failure, particularly Bruce, who represented the source of the whole problem.

"Get out," he snarled, wishing fiercely for something to hurl.

But those cold blue eyes were all for the flecking red specs around Jason's wrist.

"You've hurt yourself again." The tilt to those blue eyes then actually looked sad, the picture of a tired father finding his son had injured himself.

The very first week of his internment, Jason had worked his wrist bloody in the cuff, but nothing short of crippling his hand would get it off, and he hadn't been quite that desperate. Bruce had been upset by the damage he'd inflicted anyway, and he'd spent a week heavily sedated into near unconsciousness until it had healed.

That caring hurt worse than anything though.

"Let me see." The man took a determined step forward, gaze fixed on the visible injury to his son, already reaching out, but Jason wasn't having any of it. He knew what those hands could do. He twisted at the hip, leg snapping around in a vicious kick. Bruce blocked it effortlessly, grunting in dissatisfaction. Blue eyes turned steel hard, and that was the only warning.

"Don't!" Jason got out before he was slammed into the bed, Bruce's weight settling over him, large thighs crushing either side of his waist. He tried to fight it, struggling for lost leverage, but Bruce's hand was already slipping around behind his neck, digging into nerves. Jason stiffened, but it was too late, every muscle in his body went limp simultaneously, and no matter how he tried he couldn't get them to respond.

He couldn't move, couldn't twitch his fingers, his body no more than fine clay under this man's hands.

Not easing the sharp pressure of his fingers, Bruce reached up and pressed his free thumb to the release on the metal cuff, waiting for the little beep that signaled the contraption recognized its owner and the pop of the lock releasing. For the first time in weeks he had what he wanted—it was off, he was free—and he couldn't move.

Jason wanted to heave against the weight pressing him down, wanted to howl, something feral and deep, something to unleash his frustration on the world, at the injustice of it. But he couldn't. He couldn't do any of it. He had to close his eyes, teeth gritted, as Bruce quickly clipped his other wrist into the cuff instead.

Gentle fingers encircled his damaged wrist then, lifting it for inspection, turning it over.

"It's not as bad as before," Bruce finally deemed, setting the wrist down carefully. "It'll heal." And then that gentleness melted away, the man's large hand sliding down to his jaw, gripping either side firmly, crushingly tight.

"If you hurt Robin again, there will be consequences." It was said like an afterthought, but the whole visit had the air of a warning.

Enraged, Jason settled for glaring accusingly up at the man above him, his judge, jury, and warden. It wasn't like there was much Bruce could do to make the situation worse than it already was.

The man's large hand brushed gently through his hair as he departed—a corrosive caress Jason couldn't even flinch away from. He regained use of his muscles seconds too late to shatter the man's knee, left instead to spit profanities after Bruce's retreating shadow.

* * *

**Author Notes:** Changing out words and names again in the reading material. Do you recognize that book?

I was initially trying to go with originality on this game thing, but my beta didn't recognize the game I'd chosen, so I gave up and went mainstream. XD I considered taking that scene out, since it still feels sort of stuck in there to me, but I needed to show more Dick attempting to bond with Damian.

Next chapter (Nov. 6?) everything goes wrong. Certain character's entire life views are about to be shattered...

Oh! I finally posted Persona! And if there's anyone here who has been waiting for that, I'm sorry it took so long.


	5. Truth

.

**Chapter 5**

Truth

Dick watched Robin crouched on a gargoyle, struck again by the grace and maturity his little brother had developed lately. It was Nightwing and Robin tonight. Just the two of them. Batman had his own rounds, and Dick had promised a patrol with Tim.

"It's been too long, Little Brother." He stretched, one arm in the air, looking out over the city, ready to start the night.

"You could always come by more often." Robin was watching the streets down below, starting along the ledge. "You could always stay."

"You could always come by yourself!" Nightwing poked him in the ribs, following behind. "My place isn't that much of a mess."

"But then Bruce wouldn't get to see you. Or Jason." Dick wasn't sure Jason really wanted to see him anyway, and it was as good of an excuse as any to change the topic. There'd been a lot of talk about Dick staying lately.

"Speaking of which, don't you think it's about time you let Jay go?" Nightwing was a shadow behind the brighter boy. "Whatever trespass he's committed this time, don't you think he's paid by now?" Robin paused at the corner, glancing back at him.

"Don't you think _you're_ a little too lenient on _Damian_?" he responded, shifting the issue defensively. "He did try to kill you."

"Caught." Nightwing grinned, raising his hands in the air. "But if B found out how serious it is, Little D might be in for some harsh punishment. He doesn't need more punishment. He needs guidance." Robin only regarded him blankly.

"Don't take him lightly." He started to turn away, but Dick wasn't going to let him avoid answering his question. His hand gripped the boy's shoulder.

"Robin. About Jay…"

"Give it another twenty-four hours." The boy pulled out his grapple gun.

"That bad, huh?"

"We're working on it." Robin grimaced before swinging to the next building over. He was waiting when Nightwing joined him a second behind, facing away again, using the guise of watching for trouble across the city. "Is it wrong if I want Jason to stay? If I'd do anything to keep him with us?" Dick felt a pang. Jason had broken all of their hearts.

"No, Little Brother." He stepped up beside Robin, supportive. "I want him back too. But Jason's chosen his own way, and there's no sign that's going to change any time soon."

"But if it does, if it could…"

"If it does, I'll be the first in line to welcome him back."

The wail of sirens jolted them out of their talk, and with a resigned grin for each other, they swung down into the dirt and grit of Gotham. It turned out to be a fire, and at least half an hour was spent sweating through blistering, smoke-clogged hallways, carrying residents to safety. There was a certain exhilaration that came with every victim released safely into the waiting arms of paramedics: the knowledge of a life saved and a job well done. He could tell Robin felt it too when the boy grinned at him afterward with soot-streaked cheeks, once they'd met up again afterward on a nearby rooftop. He couldn't keep in his own grin, or the chuckle at their identically grimy faces. Shaking his head, Robin threw at him one of the little sanitation wipes he'd been using in a useless attempt to clean off some of the soot.

"Hey!" Dick swiped at it, snatching it out of the air before it could bounce off his chest. He looked up, but Robin was already bounding away. "Hey!" he yelped again, taking off after the boy, not to be outdone. And the night became a race, rushing headlong into the darkness and the gunshots and the punches, covering each other instinctively. Robin didn't miss a beat, and Nightwing reveled in the feel of being part of something again, something bigger and grander, a feel of completion that only came with working with one of his family.

It was one of those rare nights where everything worked out: everything went according to plan, no one got hurt, and it felt like something had been accomplished at the end.

There was only one mishap the entire night. It happened near the end of their patrol.

Nightwing had scaled a series of window ledges and architectural flourishes up to a higher roof for a better view of an alley, leaving Robin to follow. There was a small popping sound and suddenly gas was spewing from one of the compartments on Robin's belt. Dick hopped down from the higher roof, running toward the younger vigilante even as Robin's nimble fingers fought the clasps on his belt, struggling with a safety release.

"Robin!" He reached the boy just as Tim took out a batarang and cut through it, throwing the belt over the edge of the building, just in time for one of the pellet grenades to go off, rattling the windows of the building with the resulting explosion.

Dick swallowed, eyes still glued to that place where the belt had gone over. That had almost been his brother. And suddenly he could feel how hard his heart was beating, how terrified he'd been. He'd almost lost his _brother_. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. "What happened?"

"I don't…" Only the hike of Robin's eyebrows indicated how wide his eyes must be. "The pellet must've been defective."

"We check those!" Dick nearly shook him, but settled for hugging the hell out of him instead.

"I know. I…" Robin wet his lips with his tongue. He couldn't stop looking over at the side of the building. If it had been the pellet grenade that had gone off first instead of the gas pellet…

"Robin!" Batman's voice came in over the comm. He'd been close enough somewhere to hear the explosion. "Report!"

"I'm okay." Tim sounded shaky—shakier over the comm. "There was… an accident."

"I'm coming." Once Tim had cut off the communication, Dick impatiently pulled him back in for another hug, breathing into black hair.

"Jeez. Don't scare me like that."

* * *

It was only a matter of minutes until Batman showed up. Nightwing had reluctantly left Robin to look for remaining pieces of the belt, if there were any. They couldn't risk any gear—even broken, damaged gear—getting into the wrong hands.

"Robin, what happened?" Batman's gauntlets swallowed either side of Tim's face, worried frown pulling at his lips. Tim took a moment to push into the rough brush of thumbs against his cheeks, close his eyes and breathe. Then he met the lenses of that dark cowl and smiled, still leaning into the worried graze of hands, steadying him.

"Mishap with the pellets." He could tell by the deep and resounding silence that followed that the man didn't believe him. Or didn't believe that was all of it. There wasn't a single muscle twitch, not a deepening of the frown or lowering of eyebrows behind the cowl, but Tim knew the man was studying him, eyes boring into his, trying to ferret out what Tim was hiding. Tim stared resolutely back: earnest, innocent Robin.

Batman had always protected him. This time, it was his turn to protect Batman.

"You checked your belt?" He wasn't going to get at the answers that way, but maybe he just felt the need to drill Robin a bit on procedure to take some responsibility over the accident. Or maybe he was establishing a baseline for his internal polygraph.

"Restocked it before I turned in last night."

Batman started to ask another question, but at that point Nightwing swung back up onto the roof.

"Police!" he warned. Of course the disturbance had come to the attention of the authorities, which meant the questioning was called off for now. Batman's lips thinned but there was nothing he could do about it. Still, the look he pinned Robin with was steely.

"Return to the cave. I'll meet you there."

* * *

Robin was lying to him. Bruce sat in the cave bathed in the glow of the flat screen monitor, having dismissed the boys earlier, because no amount of pressing was getting to the truth. Robin stubbornly repeated that it had been an accident.

Robin was _lying_ to him.

Bruce leaned back in the chair, considering this unexpected turn and trying to reconcile events with the boy who always obeyed him flawlessly. It wasn't the first time, of course. Robin _had_ lied before, but usually when Bruce was inadvertently inhibiting the boy's personal identity and Robin didn't want to be rude. Those instances had been few to begin with. They'd been nearly nonexistent the past few years and especially since Robin found the file.

This instance didn't feel the same as those anyway. It was more blatant, not so coyly deceptive, as though he'd been tight on time for coming up with a more convincing thread.

Did the boy really expect him to believe that his fastidious little Robin had neglected to check his equipment? No. The boy didn't make those kinds of mistakes anymore. Moreover, he knew they checked everything in the belts on a routine basis. That left only one possibility. There was only one other reason Bruce could think of why Robin would lie to him: Robin thought the truth would hurt him. The boy was taking the blame for someone in order to spare Bruce somehow.

Grimly, he tapped out a few keys on the computer before him, bringing up the monitors in the manor. Scanning the live images playing out before him, he quickly found the one he wanted, full-screened the feed, and leaned forward, fingers laced before him, to observe, blue eyes intent. There had been instances of fighting between his boys before. He'd thought—wrongly if he was reading the situation right—that those tiffs had stopped, the responsible parties having come to a tentative understanding.

On screen, the youngest of his boys paused, turning to someone still out of camera shot, and Bruce's blue eyes narrowed keenly, watching the scene play out.

* * *

The answer, of course, was relatively simple. It didn't take Dick long to work the possibilities. He knew Tim kept his belts stocked and checked as a matter of course. There were only so many people who had access to that equipment. Of those people, there was only one who had been actively hostile towards Tim.

He caught Damian in passing in the foyer.

"We need to talk." He grabbed the boy by the arm, swinging him around so they were face to face, because these practical jokes were getting out of hand. "You could've killed Tim tonight!"

"What do you think I was trying to _do?_"

"This is serious."

"I am being serious."

"I know you don't actually want to kill your brother. Otherwise you wouldn't have tampered with the gas pellet as well. It was a prank, right? It got out of hand?"

Damian bristled, jerking free of Dick's hold.

"I'm Father's rightful heir! _Drake_ is the usurper!"

"Tim's been through a lot." Dick could understand the jealousy, especially from Damian, who'd been raised to believe he'd succeed all others, but it had to end. The boy had to understand and come to accept that there were other people who needed his father's attention as well. "Bruce was there for him when he lost everyone he cared about. Of course they're close. It doesn't mean he loves you any less…"

"Only because Father made it so to keep Drake," Damian cut in. "He has me now. He doesn't need the rest of you anymore!"

"What do you mean, made it so?" Dick was honestly confused by that one.

"Father killing his parents, of course."

"Oh, Dami." Dick stared at him sadly, because it was one thing to act out for attention, but there were limits. "It's not nice to say things like that."

"I'm not lying! Father was behind it, just like he arranged for your parents' _accident_, and Todd's."

"I won't allow you to say such things about Bruce." He was becoming cross, his voice picking up his distress, and he was afraid it was because Damian looked absolutely serious about this. The boy actually believed it. And it was hard not to look into those serious blue eyes—Bruce's blue eyes—and not doubt. Damian had been raised with a lot of things, but one of those was a system of honor.

Dick knew lies when he heard them. He knew jealousy when he heard it too. But this… this was the unadulterated truth of a boy who just wanted to be believed.

"You seriously thought Father _liked_ charity cases?"

"Don't." He'd been prepared for a lot of things.

"Didn't you ever wonder why you all had so much in common?"

"Stop." He hadn't been prepared for this.

"The black hair? The blue eyes? The lack of parents?" And Damian had something to prove now.

"Because he knew what it was like!"

"Because he picked you out. He took out the obstacles in his way, subsequently making you more amenable to his offered comfort in your distress."

Dick threw the vase from one of the end tables at the boy. He didn't even realize he'd done it until it was done. Just… anything to make him shut up. Damian only ducked, of course, and the vase smashed into the door. He opened his mouth, but then caught sight of Dick's wide-eyed stricken look, and perhaps realizing he'd won unconditionally, adopted a more level tone.

"I won't accept Drake." And finally, _finally_, he turned and headed up the stairs, leaving Dick shattered in the foyer.

* * *

Dick didn't know what to do first. Part of him wanted to confront Bruce, demand to know if it was true, though he couldn't figure out why Damian would lie. Part of him wanted to gather his siblings and get them as far away as possible. He didn't know how long he wallowed there in indecision, the rest of the world spinning past somewhere outside, but long enough that another family member found him.

"Dick!" The familiar sound of his name grounded him, _decided_ him. He turned to find Tim there, and _heavens_, he had to tell Tim. Something on his face must have given him away, because Tim frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Tim. Timmy…" He didn't even know where to start. The boy didn't deserve this. He put his hands on Tim's shoulders bracingly and knelt down so they were at eye level. "Why don't you come to Bludhaven with me?" Because he had to get Tim away from Bruce. The manor felt like an oppressive weight, some dark hole they were all slipping into. He could tell Tim the truth once they were away from all that, once he knew for sure. "We can hang out. Eat pizza. Away from Bruce."

"Why would you want to leave? You just got here."

Dick opened his mouth… and nothing came out. What could he say? But Tim's eyes were narrowing thoughtfully. He tilted his head and cut right to the heart of all Dick's hemming and hawing.

"Damian told you."

Dick's mouth clicked shut. Tim knew. Of course Tim knew. He knew and he'd stayed anyway. The sliver of doubt Dick still held—the hope that Damian had been confused, that there was no way Bruce could have done such a thing, not Bruce—died instantly under the level regard of Tim's too-serious blue eyes. Bleak, empty, hopeless eyes.

"It's true then," Dick whispered, reeling. It felt like the walls were falling in on him, the floor crumbling beneath him, everything shattering and falling away at once. He curled his toes in his shoes, digging into the soft soles, reaffirming there was ground underneath him. He had to hold it together. He wasn't the only one in this mess. Suddenly Tim's strange cheerfulness as of late made more sense. A damning kind of sense. What had Damian said? That Bruce had made it so to keep the boy?

Besides taking Tim's parents away… what else had the man done? Broken his little brother somehow, obviously. Or maybe it was just the truth that had done that.

"Timmy, you can fight Bruce's hold on you. You don't have to give into this." His hands on Tim's shoulders tightened, willing him to feel the truth of it. There was nothing they couldn't fight together. "You can come with me. We can make our own home."

Tim looked at him strangely. Slowly, the kid shook his head, back and forth, backing up. His little brother, pulling away from him.

"I am home, Dick."

The words held all the force of a punch. They seemed to knock the wind out of him. Dick had never felt so confused and betrayed as he did just then watching Tim back away from him as though he were some enemy. He desperately wanted to get the kid out of there.

"You are too," Tim continued. Sweet little Timmy brandishing that too-cheerful smile again. The sense of wrongness twisted deeper again at the sight, because he recognized it now. It was Robin's smile.

"That man's not my father." Dick gritted the angry words out.

"Of course he is. He's done nothing but care for and protect you. He loves you. Isn't that what a father does? How can you repay him like this?"

"This isn't the home I thought it was." Dick swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and watched Tim's shoulders slump with the weight of realization, the smile faltering.

"Don't you care about us?" The blue of his eyes looked so very bleak just then, like he was already watching his home break apart. The boy had already dealt with so much loss, Dick would have done anything to spare him more heartbreak just then.

"Of course I do." He reached out, hands cradling the boy's face, thumbs brushing cheekbones, fingers pushing back ebony strands of hair, unable to keep from comforting him despite everything. "Timmy, of course." Tim tried halfheartedly to push him away, but Dick only crushed him closer, wrapping his arms around the boy's shoulder and one behind his head, pressing him to his chest and wondering how they were going to get through this.

Tim's fingers clutched at his shirt, words stifled but steady.

"Then you'll stay?" There was no hope in the question, only bleakness. Dick felt guilt mix with the wash of sick dread. He'd known how hard it was to lose parents. Maybe he hadn't been there for Tim as much as he should have been. But the boy had had _Bruce_. Bruce had been there, so much closer than Dick, so much more qualified to be the soothing, silently supportive presence Tim needed to get through those days. Dick could still remember the dark days after his own parents' deaths, Bruce's arms folding around him, holding him tight—a memory that now brought a dazed sort of nausea. But at the time, he'd seen nothing wrong with letting Bruce comfort Tim, letting the man's strong arms fold protectively around his little brother, keep him safe, draw his attention and affection away from the new hole in his life. How could he have known who he was letting hold his precious little brother?

"No." Dick squeezed the boy one last time before letting him go, letting Tim back up and _look_ at him, examining him with those too-clever blue eyes. "I can't be around that man anymore."

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this." Because Tim knew, obviously, how hard that realization was. Why hadn't he run? "Damian's a brat. But it's going to be okay, Dick. Really, it is." Tim was using that reassuringly bright smile again by the end of it, and it hurt to watch.

"No, it's not." He shook his head, swallowing down more of the sickness coating his mouth. "This isn't okay."

"But it can be. Bruce won't leave you. You'll see."

"What do you mean?" Dick stilled. He couldn't decide if that was a warning or attempted reassurance.

"You were a Robin, of course." Like the Robin staring at him now from Tim's resolute blue eyes. "Robin belongs to Batman. He needs us, and he'll always be there for us."

The sick dread was quickly turning into horror. He'd known it was bad. He'd known something was wrong with the boy. But now… What had Bruce done to him?

Dick's mouth thinned grimly.

"Is that why Jason's still tied up? Because he's a Robin too?"

"He doesn't know the truth." Tim shook his head. "But yes, he belongs here just like us. He'll see that eventually." Dick sucked in a steadying breath.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Timmy." He took a deliberate, solid step forward: Nightwing to meet Robin. "Maybe when you're away from that man you'll see sense."

"I'm not leaving, Dick. I'm not leaving." His eyes narrowed. "And neither are you." Tim opened his mouth to shout, but Dick was already diving after him, flattening him to the floor. The impact drove the air from Tim's lungs, but he was already twisting even as they went down, bringing a knee up to wedge between them. Dick would have preferred being gentle, but he could already tell Tim was going to fight this out by the press of that knee into his gut and the way the boy struggled in his grip.

His fingers stretched for, _caught_ the hardbound book on the nearby end table and slammed it into Tim's head, dropping the boy instantly. He fell back limp in Dick's arms.

"I'm sorry, Little Brother," he whispered it against one temple through wisps of black hair, allowing himself this moment to just rock the limp body of his younger brother in his arms and let the betrayal and anger and regret wash through him, let it wash him clean. When he opened his eyes again, he was focused, the turmoil inside him clamped down tight, the course before him clear. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

**Author Notes:** And so Dick finds out the truth. What's he going to do about it though? And will he have help? Because I know a certain imprisoned character who would just love a chance at freedom... I guess we'll find out next time!

Hm, I appear to have offended all my reviewers somehow last chapter. And here I thought if I was going to make everyone mad, it was going to be ch. 6... Really kind of nervous and worried about posting that one. I did mention at the beginning of this whole thing that this fic was never intended to "fix" any of the damage of the previous installment, right? I feel I should be re-emphasizing that.

Can I ask a question? I have a terrible time deciding on that dumb little genre tag. Would this better qualify as horror? Dictionary. com describes it as "an overwhelming and painful feeling caused by something frightfully shocking, terrifying, or revolting." Does that description fit this fic? I feel that it might. (there are so many misplaced fics in the horror category though)


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